Back in my day, payment for good articles was to not be locked in the SockRoom™. I spent a lot of time in there.

Ayyyyyy I knew it! And nah, since you actually wrote the whole story it's all cool :P

You wouldn't happen to read Calvin and Hobbes, would you?

Loved the conversations!

Thanks :D finish your story too nubmult

The pen is willing, but the mind...is not.

Skateboards covered in stickers, shearing paint off railings. Cans rattling in hands, colours blossoming on walls. Lanyards dangling from keys, engines howling into the night. Laces trailing from hi-tops, locomotive lights illuminating faces in tunnels. A collection of souls, appearing seemingly at random, taking over a city, taking back a city, enshrouded by darkness. Keyboards dusted with crumbs, clicking as symbols appear on screens. Papers, slowly curling, sighing as they are stacked on one another. Books covered in ink, whispering as hands leaf through them. Fabric, coloured in hues unknown, stretching as it is fitted. A collection of souls, appearing on schedule, taken by a city, giving up to a city, enslaved by light. A man walks down a street lit entirely by neon signs. He wears a suit, and carries a briefcase. A woman walks down an alley populated by A/C units and empty boxes. She wears a business jacket and has a handbag on her shoulder. He walks onwards. She turns left. They collide. Awkward apologies. Brushing of shoulders. Sidesteps, and onward motion. But it is too late. They know. They know. It’s in the way the man’s briefcase rattled when it fell to the pavement. It’s in the way that the woman’s handbag did the same. It’s in the way that they’ve both memorized the timetable of the police patrols roaming the streets, and have timed their respective journeys with the gaps between them. A hidden smile spreads across both of their faces as they keep walking. Two walls bleed starbursts of colours behind them. The same goes for the women who cross each other in a car park, and recognize the lanyards emblazoned with performance logos clutched in each others hands. A scent of burnt rubber and fuel permeates the air around them. Two young men in their office cafeteria take note of the other’s tattered shoes and light stance. In their cubicles, identical board stickers colour the walls. A man standing on a subway platform notices the way a woman on the opposite platform peers off it and subconsciously measures the distance from the edge to the track. At night, the tunnels come alive to the light of their fluorescent lights. Their jagged edges call out to each other, creating a partnership unlike any other. Colours, speed, music, adrenaline; they form a key that unlocks the night and allows their souls to step through, out into the freedom of the darkness. Within those souls is held what unites them all. Spirit.

RFL to Rafael. At least, I think so :ph34r:

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEE name puns!

...not drive them? cri

Because I is choppy writer :P

But relative speed and direction at the last point of contact sounds so much cooler... Besides, to me at least, velocity makes it sound a lot faster than it actually is.

Loved the technical analysis!

Thankee! I'm going to start a collection of those stories one day. And yeah, lumpily is a word, although I think US spellcheckers disagree. :wub: Thanks for the kind words!

I miss being scared of sudden death. I miss jumping at the slightest noise. I miss being a rational person with rational fears. And I hate that violence has become commonplace, that the sight of blood has become commonplace, and that acceptance of death has become commonplace. I hate that all those things have let me survive this long. I hate this goddamn war. * Night vision glasses watch the fading glow of the retreating jeeps’ lights. A hand reaches carefully for a thermally camouflaged electronic notepad and enters the precise time, followed by a single line’s worth of description. The owner scans the area ahead of it in sweeping strokes of 180 degrees, intently searching for the slightest movement. For three quarters of an hour, it sees nothing. Then, the scene changes. A relatively quiet heavy duty engine cranks into life and idles lumpily, cutting through the still darkness. The figure swings towards the source of the noise immediately, holding the glasses with one hand and searching for the notepad with the other. At first, it sees no untoward movement or disturbance in the foliage. The engine’s idle slowly becomes smoother as it warms up for the next five minutes. Still, nothing moves. The engine’s clatter is abruptly interjected with the sound of gears dropping into position, and now there is definite movement. Branches and small bushes are pushed aside, snapping and splintering as a medium sized tank emerges from the darkness, slit - like headlamps casting a dull glow ahead of it. The figure, still concealed, lowers its night vision glasses and quietly surveys the slowly moving metal contraption. It notes the long, low body, the elongated barrel of the oversize gun mounted to it, as well as a distinct oddity, visible even in the gloom. The lack of any marking upon the body of the tank. It picks up speed slowly, and vanishes in the opposite direction to the convoy it destroyed, the sound of its engine the last faint trace of itself the only thing it leaves behind. The figure stays a moment after the machine leaves, noting its relative speed and direction at the last point of contact then stands up, stretches and retrieves a motorcycle standing hidden against a large boulder. With a little persuasion, the tiny two-stroke engine sputters into life, and the figure retreats. * Not one of us, and not one of them. Not a single distinguishing mark on its hull. Not a variation in its pattern. Destroy one of ours, destroy one of theirs, repeat. All the while not answering the question that I, and I suspect they too are struggling with. Why?

A remarkably astute observation, but for one point; I am possessed of a caramel - chocolate voice.

It had it anyway :P @Hippin_in_Hawaii, if that is indeed a reference to me, I expect great things of him :ph34r:

I paused the Goodwood Revival race livestream to read this. I think that says all that needs to be said.

The mark of a true mechanic.

Crisp, warm and deliciously thick? Genius. :lol:

I wonder what Molly(?) sounds like...

Because I became a B U S Y B O I

Probably because I only wrote it a couple of days ago :P

Thanks! Planning to continue it, yep :D